


mint green tiles at the edge of summer's light

by soer



Series: don't blink or you'll miss it (but that's okay too) [2]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 14:50:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4226010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soer/pseuds/soer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bathroom is covered in mint green tile and someone is in there, singing very softly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mint green tiles at the edge of summer's light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stoplight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoplight/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Sui!!  
> The inspiration for this story came from a line in Richard Siken’s poem "You Are Jeff”, from the 9th stanza, specifically this:  
>  _"The bathroom is covered in mint green tile and someone is in there, singing very softly. Is he singing to you? For you?"_  
>  Reading it gave me a very Sui-ish feel if that makes any sense at all. You can definitely thank chottostop for showing me this line!  
> [Glow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JtZ3QpkJPtk) was on repeat for the duration of my writing this.

\---------------

The bathroom is covered in mint green tile and someone is in there, singing very softly.

You know this because your body carries you across it on nothing but muscle memory, day after day.

You know this because it is that selfsame voice that wakes you in the morning and lulls you to sleep at night.

You know this because it is the house that you share, this small two bedroom house filled with clutter and memories and things that you cannot bear to throw away.

.

You are standing at a crossroads in your field of sunflowers and you can see your younger self sitting on the steps of that soft brown porch while the ghost of your future stands some eight steps away from you, eyes trained on the soft yellow petals that remind you of your mother in every glance.

And both versions of you have your head titled to one side, an ear always trained to hear that selfsame voice no matter how soft or distant it is from you.

You look back in the direction where steam fogs up the small half-open window in the bathroom, and his presence is obscured by wall separating you but you don’t mind, only wonder.

Is he singing to you? For you?

Usually you know. Usually you know what meaning his voice carries.

But today…

Today you don’t.

And it shouldn’t be a surprise to you but you are disappointed all the same.

In yourself.

You find your gaze returning to the specters of your life and the smile comes to your lips unbidden.

Both of them hold one truth.

You love him.

But as night falls that future will vanish forever, leaving you only with the past and a memory of what could have been.

Your last memory of him is soft lips and the gift of a sunflower.

.

That night, the air is the coldest it has ever been, but it is nothing compared to the dying embers in the home of your heart.

The stars shine bright above you and all you can think of that night (and every night afterwards) is:

_I hope you are doing well._

It does not surprise you that you should still think of him even now.

For thirty years you have loved him.

And you know that you will love him even as you enter your last stage of life without him.

The sunflowers growing on your windowsill sit in a pot painted the color of mint green tiles belonging a once-distant memory, of a home where you laughed happily as you never have before, or afterwards since.

You wonder if he still lives there now, if he still sings softly, if he still sings to you, for you.

If he still thinks of you as you do him.

You cannot help the smile on your face every time you glance at your sunflowers – the smiles of your two loves are imprinted on them, always.

\---------------

The echo of water and your voice is all that you hear around you in the familiar setting of your small bathroom, the glass of the shower stall and the half open window completely fogged up by steam.

Your voice comes out soft amidst everything and your mind is empty, blank.

You are singing, but you hear nothing of yourself from before.

These days you hardly know what you think.

But singing in the shower is like rote memory, and even if your mind wanders your body remembers.

The water drips plip-plip in a puddle on the bathroom floor, and even though the glass of the window is fogged up you can still see him through the open airy half, his hair a red sunstone among yellow sunflowers.

The comparison makes you smile, because he’s always reminded you of the sun, shining so brightly against everything else, especially against the backdrop of sunflowers.

Sometimes your voice sings to him.

At other times it sings for him.

Right now, you don’t know which one it is.

And you doubt that he knows either.

.

You remember the first day the both of you moved into this house, bought specifically for the open area outside, perfect for planting a field of your favorite flowers.

It was your gift for him but you both worked together to make it come true.

You remember watching over his sleeping form every night for the first month, his body warm against yours serving as proof of your reality together.

It still makes your heart pound, waking up to his sleepy smile every morning, but his kiss to your soft “hi”s make it all worth it, every time.

You remember exchanging vows, a small reception filled only with your supportive friends and families amidst sunflowers, always sunflowers.

It was the happiest moment of your life.

The second moment was when the both of you brought him home, the small sleeping form an unfamiliar (but not unwelcome) weight in your arms.

The smile of your husband holding your child made your heart go aflutter in a new way, and you look forward to feeling it again and again, for the rest of your life.

It wasn’t meant to be.

Your child got sick and the two of you could do nothing but watch helplessly as he was taken away, the future of your happiness robbed by none crueler than fate.

.

The light is on but you hardly register its presence as you travel from room to room listless, guided by your husband’s gentle hands.

More often than not you are found asleep in the small pastel green room, surrounded by album after albums of pictures.

There should have been more.

So much more.

.

You know you should care, but you don’t.

Nothing is the way it used to be.

No matter how hard either of you tries to cling to the past – time is irreversible.

And because nothing can be what it once was, there must be change.

.

Both of you knew it was coming.

It was slow, but inevitable.

And now it has come to this, with you standing against the doorway of your home – yours, no longer shared – and him standing on the porch, eyes colored like sunstone even in the dark of the night.

You share one last kiss and then he bequeaths you with a sunflower, an echo of the first gift he ever gave to you.

You hold the yellow petals against your chest, your hand gripping the long stalk tightly as your eyes follow the fading light walking away into the darkness, that red a beacon to you despite the black ink of the night.

.

That night, the air is the coldest it has ever been, but it is nothing compared to the cold fire that burns in your heart, burning away everything ever important to you.

And at last, when the sun begins to rise up again, you shake the past from your stiff shoulders and turn away into your house without another thought.

It’s time to start anew.

.

You are on your deathbed, sitting alone in your room, waiting for fate to take you as it took your first child,

Your partner is asleep in the other room, tired from the long work day, and the television hums in the background.

Your eye catches sight of the single potted plant on your mint green windowsill and you lean your head against the cool glass pane.

For the first time in years you allow yourself to think about him, an extinguished love left behind so long ago.

A lifetime has passed without him by your side, and you cannot help but feel disappointed in yourself.

Even after so long you still feel nothing for him, not since the moment you froze over.

Time, the healer of all pains, will need more than this life to make you feel again.

You wonder:

_Does he think of me?_

And then you chuckle.

What are you asking?

Of course he does.

That’s just the kind of person he is, to you.

Only you.

You keep your eyes on the plant and thoughts of your last love flow into your mind despite years of nothing.

Time is drawing short.

It will be soon.

And unbidden, a smile graces your lips, curving it in a way this lifetime had never been able to recreate on your figure.

“Despite everything, I do still love you,” you murmur, voice as soft as song.

Your head rests against the glass holding back the night sky, the yellow of your favorite flower never leaving your attention even as the memory of warmth as red as sunstones guides you into the next night.

_“I always have.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Written June 16th-23rd, 2015


End file.
